


Making New Friends. Or not.

by Gwynne



Category: Vorkosigan Saga - Lois McMaster Bujold
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-01-29
Updated: 2012-01-29
Packaged: 2017-10-30 07:25:54
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 927
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/329269
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Gwynne/pseuds/Gwynne
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>For trobadora: Galeni making the decision to go back to the Academy or dealing with the immediate consequences of having done so.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Making New Friends. Or not.

They called him ‘Grandfather’ at first. It was a tough decision, they were really spoilt for choice – as well as being nearly a decade older than most of the recruits he was from Komarr, he was a university nerd and he was the son of a known terrorist. So much to choose from. But a rather intense lecture on the first day, from an Impsec colonel, persuaded the cadets that they’d better stick to non-political abuse. So he was Grandfather, and if the words ‘rebel Komarran bastard’ were spoken, it was only very quietly.

Duv became an expert at not hearing the mutterings. It never occurred to them that he really didn’t care what they thought. That he expected everything they said, and did, and more. And that, if he’d chosen, he could have done far worse in return.

They laughed at Grandfather, and laid bets on how long he’d last, and waited to see his inevitable, satisfying failure.

Things started to change after the third week. 

They’d had three weeks of intense physic al training, punctuated with lectures that were massive information dumps. Duv coped with both physical and intellectual challenges easily; some of his rather pampered fellow students, and even some of those who’d worked and trained hard to get there, were struggling by the end of the first week. By the end of the third week the self-appointed leader of the class and his regular group of sycophants, all of them Vor to the backbone, decided to make sure that Grandfather didn’t think some minor success gave him any status in the group. They casually bailed Duv up on the way to the mess hall to deliver their message.

They called him a Komarran terrorist. They’d never thought about what that really meant, if it were true. They never thought that they were dealing with a trained killer, with someone who had lived with deadly danger, who’d fought and run and lied for his life. 

It never occurred to any of them that Duv had threat assessments running in his head all the time. Or that a man in his twenties who’d been practicing his self-defence skills for almost two decades would be fitter and physically more capable than some indulged teenagers who’d played sport and depended on the servants for most of their lives.

They thought they were trapping the old Komarran traitor to teach him that he didn’t belong at their elite military academy. They didn’t begin to suspect that the experienced freedom fighter had carefully led them to a spot out of sight of the staff, where he had his back protected by two intersecting walls. Once Duv was in position he let them rush him.

And then he carefully, precisely and scientifically took them apart. His greatest challenge was to make sure he did no permanent or very visible damage – he had to hold back a little. It was actually rather cathartic, a familiar adrenaline high that didn’t have the bitterness of a body count. Well, not dead bodies, although the living ones limped away rather miserably. 

Afterwards Duv strolled to the mess hall and had a hearty dinner.

Over the next few days Duv classified the rest of his group. There were the entitled ones – that slightly bruised group of young High Vor who were at the Academy by right because their ancestors had trained there. Some of them had promise, if they could shake off the arrogance and learn to work instead of expecting to be given everything. Some were never going to be more than mediocre. In a previous age they could expect promotions and command by right, but now the military required real ability, and the cold winds of change were chilly on their backs. Then there were the poor Vor – they had the name and rank, but they’d had to earn their way in. They had the expected prejudices, but reasonable work skills. Duv respected hard workers. 

The hardest workers were the proles, a small group who’d had to really earn their way. Until Duv arrived the proles were the lowest of the low, a handful accepted each year for the past few years. Now the Komarran was the lightning rod for all the prejudices.

Having a Komarran at the Academy was an experiment, and one that most observers expected would fail. At best they thought he might struggle through, with help, and be quietly stashed in some nondescript posting. 

What nobody expected was that Duv would become – not the group leader, but somehow their motivator. Having him in the group, and achieving so well, made all the others try that much harder. The Vor were determined not to be outdone by a Komarran traitor, and the proles had new competition. And by the end of the first month he was giving extra coaching to the ones he considered most promising, and who tried the hardest.

Duv Galeni’s Academy class had a lower dropout rate than any class before or since. Some of them idolised him by the end, most respected him, many were grateful, and some would always hate the Komarran interloper. You can’t win them all. But Duv knew which battles to win.

They also knew more dirty hand-to-hand fighting techniques than even their instructors could teach them. Mostly through watching Duv, or being coached by him. Some had more intense first-hand experience.

His class were also distinguished by the quality of their essays, from those who had an in-house Komarran tutor – excellent research, clear statements, and perfect punctuation. Old habits die hard.


End file.
